Dexter: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished V2
by A Rhea King
Summary: When Dexter kills a man to save a woman's life, he questions if he should have broken his code and killed her too. Meanwhile, The Artist taunts Miami PD by releasing details to the press, making everyone his accomplice. WITHOUT RITA
1. Chapter 1

Dexter  
No Good Deed Goes Unpunished  
By A. Rhea King

Chapter 1

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**Author's Note**: Following the climax of season 4, Rita is no longer alive. This could change later too, depending on whether Dexter ends up with her children. I left V1 up for fans who would rather read stories with her in it...

* * *

...

I stopped my car outside the shack and killed the engine. I'd prepared this place hours ago for Gregory Hewitt, a pedophile serial killer. He got away with it because he had an alibi – logs showed he was logged into his work computer at the time of the murders. But I knew he wasn't at work. He'd slipped out where there were no cameras, he'd killed the children, and now he had to be killed.

I climbed out of the cool interior of my car into the muggy, humid Florida night was a slight shock to the system. It made me grab a breath and inhale another deeply. I walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. I paused to enjoy the sight of my helpless victim. He would be out for another thirty minutes. That was plenty of time to prepare him for his final moments. I hefted him up on my shoulder, closed the lid and carried him inside, shut the door behind me.

#

Abriella Juen struggled against the duct tape that bound her hands behind her back. She felt around the trunk until her hand slipped across some sharp corner. She moved the tape over it and sawed until it tore free. She felt around the small, enclosed space, tried to find the emergency handle. But it was too dark for that. She remembered she had duct tape over her mouth and ripped it off. There was a sharp pain as the sticky backing tried to pull skin away with it. She searched again for the emergency handle.

The car came to an abrupt halt, tossed her against the back of the trunk. She rolled over, in a panic to find the lever. The lid opened and the snarling face of her husband stared down at her. He grabbed her wrists, lifted her out of the trunk, and dropped her on dirt but didn't let go of her left wrist. She hit and punched and kicked as he pulled her to her feet. He grabbed her hair, yanked back hard, and put her in an awkward position that made it impossible to fight.

"Did you really think you'd get _me_ arrested?" he asked her.

"BASTARD!" she screamed as she yanked her head forward.

A fistful of hair ripped off in his hand.

The action caught him off guard and he stepped back. She turned and in a quick motion slammed her knee into the soft, warm spot of his groin. It jammed his testicles against the pelvic bone. He lost his grip on her to grab his crotch. Abriella bolted toward buildings in the distance.

"I'M GONNA KILL YOU FUCKING BITCH!" he screamed behind her.

She didn't look back. She focused on her breathing, the rhythm of her legs as they pumped, like she did on the five-mile run she took Monday through Friday. This sprint for her life took her through deserted factory buildings where there was nobody to save her, and nothing she could use to defend herself.

She heard her husband behind her, his long strides shortening their distance.

He too was a runner. It was what brought them together in a park one day when they'd collided at a blind corner.. There had been a connection, dates, a proposal, marriage, abuse, and a son.

Abriella shook the memory of her son out of her head. She had to stay focused if she wanted to stay alive. She ran out of a building and saw a maintenance shack. Light escaped through the cracks in the wood panels. A newer mini-van was parked outside.

She zoned in on it.

#

The kill had been a good one. Satisfying. Greg threatened me until I plunged the knife through his aorta. With precision, I dissected him. The feel the bone saw cut through the muscle and bone relaxed me.

I was focused. Centered. At peace.

(In hindsight, perhaps I was a little too focused, too centered, and too at peace.)

I didn't hear the approaching footsteps bringing change.

When the door busted open, I spun around in surprise. The light outlined a figure. I judged from the height and the chest to hip width, it was a woman. In a few days I would learn her name: Abriella Juen. Right now she was a stranger about to see the _real_ me.

She pawed at the plastic, found the opening, and charged head first into my world. She was average built and wore a dirty night shirt. Her straight waist length brown hair was tangled and disheveled. Her bare feet were covered in her own blood that was oozed into Greg Hewitt's blood.

She stared at the half dismembered corpse of Gregory Hewitt for five seconds, but it felt like hours. Then she let out a blood curdling, night of the living dead scream!

Then her eyes found me. I must have looked like a monster holding a bloody bone saw and my apron and face shield coated in blood, muscle, and Greg Hewitt's insides. Her next scream was louder and higher and longer than the last.

Someone else entered the shack. The outline was fuller, but not obese, and taller than the woman. The physique told me this was a man. Had he been waiting for her? Had he come to rescue her? Was I going to have to break my Code to protect myself?

Later this man would have a name too: Carter Juen.

He found the opening much faster. If the body and I hadn't distracted her, perhaps Abriella would have had time to run from him or brace to fight back. She didn't have time for either. The man lunged and slammed her to the floor. He grabbed her head and began to beat it against the floor.

It was rare for me to be so stunned that I couldn't think of a reaction, but for a few moments that's what happened. What could this woman have done to deserve be beat so violently?

His eyes found my tools. One large hand moved to her throat and he dug his fingers in. She gagged, grabbed his wrist, and tried to rescue herself. He rocked forward and grabbed a knife with his other hand. He moved so I could see his face. I knew that look in his eyes. He was going to murder her. He was going to enjoy it. She wasn't his first.

"NO! NO!" she screamed and tried to get control of the knife.

He plunged it into her stomach. She screamed from the pain. He gave it an extra shove and twist. Her agonized scream raised in octaves.

"I AM NOT GOING TO JAIL AGAIN!"

Over my shoulder, Rita whispered, "Save her, Dex. Save her."

My shock was gone. I had to take it on gut instinct that Carter Juen fell under my Code. I dropped the saw, grabbed another knife, and drove it into his back, slid it between his ribs and punctured his left lung. The man screamed, dropped his knife, and tried to grab for the one in his back as he stood. I discovered he was much larger than I was but that had never stopped me before.

He saw me now.

He picked up a cleaver from the shelf and lunged at me. I bowed my body, compressed my abs, and the blade sliced air.

In a fluid motion I grabbed the bone saw, and moved into his next swing. With a quick, even action I cut through his throat, vertebrae and out the other side. The man looked surprised for half a second before his head fell away and then his body thumped to the floor at my feet.

Spontaneous murder. It always surprised me how much more I enjoyed it.

A soft sob reminded me I wasn't alone. I had another problem to figure out a solution to. I turned off the bone saw, sat it down, and walked around the table. On her stomach the woman crawled for the door. Her body and nightshirt were soiled with blood and guts. She bit on her bottom lip in attempt to keep quiet so I didn't hear her.

My shadow fell over her and she looked back. I reached out to the shelf where my tools sat.

"Please. Please don't kill me," she begged.

Kill her? Why would I kill her? Had I misunderstood what I'd heard? My hand closed around the small syringe next to my tools, one filled with a sedative. She tried to lunge for the door. I leapt, landed on her back, and drove her to the floor. I sank the needle into her neck, injected the sedative. She fell asleep.

I stood and stared at her. She would bleed out if I left her there. She needed a hospital, but I couldn't take her to one. There would be questions I wouldn't be able to lie my way out of. I remembered there was a fire station a few miles from here.

I guessed it was just after midnight. If they weren't on a call, the firemen would be asleep. I could leave the emergency phone outside off the hook and one of them would come down to investigate. That was an ideal plan.

"She could destroy you, Dex," Harry's voice said. He appeared across from me and stared at her with me.

I told him, "She doesn't meet the Code."

"I'm proud you're sticking to the Code, son, but this is dangerous."

Rita appeared beside me. "He's saving her life. He's doing the right thing."

"This woman could destroy him. Destroy his and your family."

"Dexter, you have to save her. You've gone this far to do it," Rita told me.

"No. You have to kill her too. She will ruin everything you have," Harry argued.

"I'm taking her to the firehouse. That's it," I informed the voices.

They said no more.

I picked her up and carried her to a bench lined with plastic. First I had to get all trace off her.

#

Nina Batista looked at the door when someone knocked. She got up from the couch and opened it. Angel glared at her.

"Forget it," were the first words out of his mouth.

Her jaw tensed with anger.

"Angel, it's a good job. A great job. It'll provide for both of us. And it doesn't mean anything. It's just a piece of paper."

"Doesn't _mean_ anything?" he snarled. "You're asking me to say I don't want to be my little girl's father! That means a lot, Nina. She's my baby. I'm not about to give up custody just because you found a better paying job. You two have enough with your income and my child support."

"Angel, with this job we don't have to do _just fine_. I can pay for everything with my income and put all the child support into her college fund."

"I am not giving up custody, Nina, and you are not taking her out of Miami. That's the end of the conversation."

"Angel—"

"That is the end of the conversation." Angel turned and stormed back into the night.

Nina sighed as she leaned on the door handle.

"Mom?"

She turned. Ally stood in the hall.

"Did I hear dad?" Ally asked.

She nodded.

"Were you two fighting again?"

Nina looked down. She didn't look up when Ally ran back to her bedroom. She shut the door and could hear her child bawl. Nina leaned against the door, bawling herself.

#

The elevator opened and I pushed off the back with one hand, kept a box of donuts balanced on the palm of my other hand. I'd arrived home two hours before the children would get up, but I was still charged from the double kill and sleep was the last thing on my mind. It left me in a cheerful mood and I'd bought donuts for the office.

Except…

I stopped inside homicide. Batista was the only person in the room.

"Where is everyone?" I asked.

He looked up. He stood and grabbed his hat.

"Everyone else is out on cases. Put your donuts down and grab a forensic kit."

"You mean my blood kit?"

"No. I mean forensic. Masuka left us with two days notice for Las Vegas and doesn't get back until tomorrow. We got a call about a woman dumped at a fire station last night. She was beaten pretty bad, stabbed, possibly raped, she's married, and no one can find the husband. Could be murdered. I need forensics and right now you're all I've got."

And you never will find her husband, if that's who I killed last night.

I glanced back. Henry sat on Debra's desk with his '_I told you so'_ frown. Rita leaned on a doorframe with her '_I'm so proud of you_' smile.

I have to talk my way out of this.

"Angel, I can't. I have—"

"Do I look like I'm asking? I'm you're fucking supervisor. Stop stalling and get your fucking kit!" He stormed out to the elevators.

There goes my good morning…

#

Hospitals smell like death and disinfectant – not a pleasant combination. I followed Batista through the double doors of the emergency room. He flashed his badge at the nurse closest to the door.

"We were called about a possible rape and attempted murder."

"They're just finishing the rape kit. Wait here and I'll come get you when they're ready." She left the central 'staging area' and went into a room.

This hospital had taken lead from many across the country. Instead of curtained areas there were individual rooms. They did it to help reduce the noise, but in truth, it didn't help much. Pain and misery weren't two human conditions that could be silence.

"What are you doing Friday?" Batista asked.

"I don't know. Why?"

"Maria and I would like to…" He stopped when the nurse came to the room door and motioned for us.

I almost hesitated. I wanted to make up an excuse for why I couldn't go in, but that would raise suspicion.

The nurse stopped us at the door. "She's really freaked out, guys. And men aren't high on her list of people to trust. Take it easy."

We went in and I stopped at the counter at the end of the room to set Masuka's forensics kit down. I'd processed four rapes during his other spontaneous vacations and knew what was needed.

"Hi," Batista said behind me. "I'm Detective Angel Batista, but you can call me Angel if you like." He paused.

I looked back.

It was the woman I'd saved last night.

Her face was bruised and cut. There were dark bruises on her neck where the man had dug his fingers in to strangle her. Her wrists had bruises from where he'd them tight enough he could have broken them. She laid on her side, her hands pressed against her stab wound. Her eyes were fixed on an infinite spot on the wall. She seemed catatonic. If she were, my problem was solved. She could remain like that for years.

"Can you tell me your name?" he asked.

In a tiny, slight voice she answered, "Abriella Juen."

I looked away when Batista smiled. "It's good to meet you."

I found a comb and piece of collection paper. I walked along the opposite side of the bed, watched her head turn so she could see me. Her eyes widened. Her whole body began to tremble. Silent tears began to flow. She remembered last night. She remembered me. Was this how my world ended? Would one loose end I had chosen not to kill bring my Dark Passenger and me to the attention of the world?

"Shhh. Shhh. This is Dexter Morgan. He works with us. He won't hurt you."

I stopped and offered a smile. "I'd never hurt you." At least not with Batista in the room. "I'm going to comb your hair for trace." Even if I knew there wouldn't be any.

She jumped when Batista touched the top of her hand and looked up at him. I slipped the paper under her hair and combed through her long, dark brown strands. I could tell without a microscope she didn't dye her hair, this was its natural color. I noticed an uneven patch that looked like it had been ripped. Had he done that to her too?

"The firemen said someone left the call box receiver off the hook and left you outside. Was it your attacker that left you there? Do you remember?"

With a slow roll of her head, she looked back at me. I kept working.

"I remember running from my husband." She looked back at Batista. "Carter was going to kill me."

"Why?"

"He'd smothered our son when he wouldn't stop crying and I walked in on it. I told him I was going to call the police on him. Before I could get down the hall, he grabbed me and hit my head against the wall. I woke up in the trunk of his car." She closed her eyes. "He stopped somewhere and pulled me out. I got loose and ran and… Then he caught up with me. He attacked me and started beating me, and… Then…" She opened her eyes, stared at the wall. "And then…"

"And then what?"

She cried harder. "And then I don't remember. I can't remember. I don't know how I got to the firehouse."

But she did remember. She wouldn't have looked at me with such terror if she didn't. Why wasn't she giving me away?

"Do you know where Carter might have gone?"

She shook her head, looked up at him. "No."

He's in six biodegradable trash bags in the Gulf Stream, a feast for sea animals and bacteria alike. In a few weeks, not even a DNA test would identify him.

"Abriella, where is your son's body?"

The question made her cry harder. I pulled the paper away before it slid off and folded it. I returned to the kit and took out an envelope, wooden fingernail scraper, and another piece of paper. I'd scrape, but again, there was no trace.

"I don't know. He might still be in his crib. I don't know what Carter did with him."

Even my empty emotions were stunned by that answer. I turned and stared at her. Batista leaned close, his hands cupped around her hand.

"Okay. Okay. We'll go take a look and take him to the morgue if we find him, okay?"

She nodded. Batista stood up.

"Dexter, are you about done?"

"Haven't scraped under her fingernails. And I don't know where her clothes are."

"I'll go ask the nurses." Batista patted Abriella's hand. "I'll leave them my card. If you think of anything or just want to talk, you call me, okay?"

She nodded.

Batista's phone rang. He looked at the screen and for a moment his face went dark with anger. Then he smiled at the woman and patted her hand.

"I'll be right back."

He left us alone. Even closed the door behind him. I took a deep breath and walked up the bed again. I slid the paper under her hands and began to scrape under her nails. She stared at me.

"I swear I won't…" she began. "Please don't kill me."

I paused.

"If you haven't killed anyone, then there's nothing to worry about," I told her. What? Why did I tell her that? Why had I just revealed the most sacred rule of my Code to her?

She nodded. She glanced at the closed door.

"He is dead… I saw… His head… You did… Didn't you?"

I nodded.

She turned her head to press half her face into her pillow. "He killed his son. My baby. He killed him just because he wouldn't stop crying. He was colicky. Jason. His name was Jason after my father. He was so smart and…" She broke off to sob into her pillow.

I finished and folded the paper into the envelope. I watched her cry. I wanted to leave her, but I couldn't. Why couldn't I leave her?

I sat the envelope on a chair and pulled off my gloves. I reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. She latched onto my arm with both hands. Had I gone from monster to hero? I had to take a closer look at this couple.

My father appeared on the other side of the bed. "She knows your secret and she kept it."

"Because I killed a man that wanted her dead and she's terrified of me."

"Perhaps she's a Lila."

"A psychotic bitch out to control everyone around her?"

"Perhaps."

I looked down at Abriella. I leaned over and she looked into my eyes.

"I take my secret very seriously," I told her.

The fear snuck back into her face. "I swear to take it to my grave."

I nodded and squeezed her shoulder. "Make sure you do."

She nodded.

Batista opened the door. He smiled at me; was he happy to see I was connecting with the victim?

"We gotta go. Are you done?"

I started to pull away. "Yes."

She grabbed my hand and I looked back at her.

"Will you… Leave your card too?" she asked me.

"I don't have one."

"His number will be on the back of mine," Batista said.

Thanks, Angel. I didn't trust anyone who knew the real me. They took advantage of it, used me, and made me kill them.

"Thank you." She let go.

I collected the envelope and kit, and we left. I didn't look back. I didn't want to encourage her to contact me.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The Miami Sun Times had a glorious reputation for keeping readers entertained with news that was _mostly_ true. Owner and editor Kyle Cobb was notorious for printing stories that sparked emotions and frequent lawsuits, but Cobb was rich enough that lawsuits were no more nuisances than mosquitoes.

So when a serial killer began sending envelopes with case files that detailed his 'artistic' murder scenes, Kyle Cob was more than happy to print as much as the FCC allowed. The paper reached readers before the police and by the time police arrived on scene, tabloid reporters, thrill seekers, macabre enthusiasts, and quacks had trampled and destroyed it. Evidence was ruined before the police even had a chance to begin, just as The Artist planned it.

Detectives Debra Morgan and Joseph Quinn were furious with Kyle Cobb for contributing to The Artists evading capture. The different law enforcement offices tried to reason with Cobb. They sent PR reps to plead to the man's goodness – it was determined he didn't have one. They had tried lawyers – his were better.

So Debra and Quinn decided to try a different approach and arrived without an appointment.

"We're here to see Kyle Cobb," Debra told the receptionist.

"Do you have an appointment?"

As if rehearsed they slapped their badges on the counter.

"We do now," Debra said.

The woman made a phone call, spoke to someone in a hushed voice, and then stood.

"Follow me," she told them.

The two were led through the newsroom and up to the mezzanine. They walked past offices to a corner office. On one side it looked down on the newsroom, on the other side it looked on downtown Miami. Cobb sat behind a desk, watching the two enter.

He stood with a large, white toothed grin. It wasn't an inviting smile. It was one that said he planned on giving them hell and welcomed this game.

"Good afternoon, detectives," he said. He motioned to a chair. "Won't you have a seat?"

The three sat.

"Would you like something to drink?" Cobb offered.

"No," they answered in unison.

Quinn led, saying, "Saw you ran another story on The Artist's latest sculpture this morning."

Cobb's smile grew. "Yes. He titled it The Lovers. Did you get to see it in person? It is a beautiful piece."

"You call two dead people who were frozen to death or died of carbon monoxide poisoning _beautiful_?" Debra snapped. "They had children who are still missing. If they show up dead, you'll have helped murder them too."

Cobb opened a drawer, pulled out a digital recorder, and turned it on before he sat it on his desk with the mic facing them.

"Detective Morgan, do you think you're experience with the Ice Truck Killer is helping this investigation? And how?"

Debra scorned. "Fuck you, asshole!"

"My wife wouldn't approve, but thank you for your ladylike offer."

Debra lurched forward to launch a verbal attack, but stopped when Quinn laid his hand on her arm.

"Look," Quinn said, interrupting her from saying anything stupid. "We need to talk about when you get information from The Artist. We're not asking you to not print it, we're just—

"Oh. You're not?" Cobb crooned, grinning.

"Sir, do you have any idea what it feels like to freeze to death or die from carbon monoxide poisoning? Men, women, children – he kills them all the same way. Do you want me to describe it to you? On the record?"

"Oh no. You don't need to describe it. Didn't you read Monday's special? It sold very well, set us forward in sales for the year. We interviewed four doctors and they gave excellent details about how the victims died. Perhaps your forensics team should read it."

"You really don't care that these people died," Debra stated. "You don't care that he murdered a twelve week old baby, or a five year old, or four teenagers? That he killed a pregnant woman? That doesn't bother you at all, does it?"

Cobb leaned back in his chair. "I didn't know them. Why should I care?"

Debra stood up, knocking over her chair. She stormed out. Quinn and Cobb stared at each other.

"All we're asking, Mister Cobb, is to let us get a firsthand look at the case file and photographs he's sent you, give us a crack at the crime scene before we lose evidence."

Cobb eased back his chair. He laced his fingers together before putting them behind his head.

"No."

Quinn drew a slow breath. He stood up and took a folded newspaper page out of his back pocket, unfolded it, and sat it down in front of Cobb.

"This will be the front page of your competitor's newspaper this evening."

The headline read: Heartless Sun Editor Kills Competitors Daughter.

"See," Quinn told Cobb, "That girl in the piece, that was his daughter. And the man, his son-in-law. The children missing are his grandchildren. And in the letter your friend The Artist sent him, it said he was doing this for you."

Cobb smiled. "The Artist sent him a letter to that effect?"

"Not effect. The exact words were, and I quote, I made this piece especially for my editor Kyle Cobb. Please enjoy."

Cobb laughed. "That's amusing. I didn't know them. I don't care."

"You should. He's going to sue you for endangering the public – something your lawyers can't get you out of. Oh, and tonight, when you drive home, you know all those unpaid parking tickets you have…" Quinn smiled. "We'll be collecting on them tonight. There's a bench warrant for your arrest that was effective at eight this morning when you didn't show up for court."

"I wasn't notified of—"

"Of course you were. It was in your newspaper's legal section yesterday. You should have read the paper. Have a good day, sir."

Quinn walked out.

#

Debra was waiting in their car. Quinn got in and headed down the street. They didn't talk right away. Debra smiled, looking at him.

"Did he like traffic's little gift?"

Quinn laughed. "Loved it. You were right. He never saw the notice."

The kicked her feet and laughed. "Right on! What about the letter? Did he believe that letter was actually sent to the editor?"

"I think so, but I thought the Herald editor was blaming us for his daughter and son-in-law being killed. How'd you get him to agree to this, Deb?

Debra told him, "Someone owed me a favor and knew how to get to him."

"Oh yeah? Who and how?"

She shrugged. "I didn't ask and if this works, I don't care."

"I guess, on the plus side, if this doesn't work, we aren't any worse off."

Debra grinned. "And if it does, we might actually get a leg up on the mother fucking Artist!"

Quinn smiled, nodding.

#

Most of the ride to the Juen house Batista and I didn't speak. His phone kept ringing. He kept ignoring it. It was annoying me. Something had to be said about it.

"Marital trouble?" I asked.

"_Ex_-marital trouble," he snarled.

Oh. On second thought, maybe it was better if I steered clear of this one.

From out of nowhere he told me, "Maria and I wanted to invite you and the kids to supper Friday night."

I didn't say no right away. I did have plans Friday. I was going to kill someone. I just didn't know who, yet.

"I really don't—"

"Maria bought the roast last night. Said it was your favorite. It was her idea."

She was expecting me to say yes. Great.

"I'll ask the kids."

"They're kids, Dexter. Just tell them they're going. They are supposed to listen to you. You are their father."

Adopted father. "We don't do things like that at our house. We talk about family decisions as a family – just like Rita used to do."

Batista glanced as me. He looked like I'd just proposed the most outrageous thing in the world.

"Fine. Never mind."

We turned the corner into a cul-de-sac. The houses in this neighborhood were huge.

"I'll talk to them, Angel."

He nodded once.

Pulling up to the front of the Juen house, I was very intrigued. The home was enormous, so it didn't appear that the Juen's were in financial distress — in theory. If money wasn't the motivation, what would make a man snap and kill his own flesh and blood?

Could I be capable of that?

Batista got out and I followed with kit in hand. He stopped to ring the doorbell. When he looked back he must have thought I was questioning why he'd done that.

"She might be lying about all this," he said.

"Okay."

No one answered. He tried the door, but it was locked.

"I'm going around back. Wait here, Morgan."

He left. I waited until he was gone and then pulled my lock pick kit from a pocket. In five seconds I had the door open and having secured the kit in my pocket, was stepping inside the house. I waited for Batista – I could explain the open door, but not why I had gone searching the house without him. It gave me time to look over the photographs set on the table in the foyer. Abriella, Jason, and Carter Juen looked like a happy family. They smiled a lot. The baby was a nice touch. But I knew his eyes. I looked into eyes like his every day. This man had killed before. Abriella wasn't his first attempt, but she was his last.

"What the… That door was locked!"

I turned to face Batista. "No. It was just stuck."

He accepted the lie.

"Stay here. I'm going to look around."

I didn't argue, watching him go up the steps. I returned to looking over the photographs and getting to know the Juen's

"Morgan, come up here," Batista called.

I walked up the steps. I found him in the baby's nursery. A well-known cartoon with talking cars decorated the room – I'm glad Rita had wanted cowboys for our son. Batista stood at the crib. I walked up and stared down at the small, colorless, bloated, corpse lying in the crib. This was a strange feeling. Was I feeling sympathy?

"Could you do that to your son? Shake him to death because he was crying? What father could do that?"

I wouldn't do that to Harris. Ever.

Batista's phone rang. He looked at it and the dark anger resurfaced. He answered it this time.

"Don't hang up," he growled at the caller. To me he said, "I'll go radio this in. Don't touch him, but start with this room."

"Angel, I'm the blood spatter guy, I really don't think—"

"I'm not asking," Batista growled and then walked out.

I watched him leave. It was uncommon for him to be so moody. I sat the kit down, donned gloves, and went in search of evidence.

#

Home.

I parked in the drive and climbed out of my vehicle. I could hear laughter in the backyard but went inside instead. I was met by the smell of spaghetti sauce. I sat my bag down and made a beeline to Harris' playpen. My son was sleeping.

"Mister Morgan?"

I turned and offered a smile to the nanny, something the grandparents had insisted on helping pay for since Rita's death. I didn't object, but I'd gone through six. They were all too nosey and objected when I came home in the middle of the night, hours after they were supposed to get off. Whether those nannies had believed I was actually working or not was unclear – each had given her notice as soon as I walked through the door.

This one was Martine, an immigrant from Haiti. She was good with the kids, a terrible cook, and so far had put up with my strange 'work' hours.

"I'm home, Martine. You can go."

"You are home for the night?"

"Yes. Thank you for starting supper."

"I had you. You were late. Again."

"I told you when you started I sometimes have to work late."

"You work late all the time, Mister Morgan."

She walked over to the playpen and looked in on Harris before looking me in the eye. I didn't like when she did this. Her eyes widened a little. Her dark skinned face tensed. Her breathing picked up a little. I felt like she was looking right at my Dark Passenger.

"I have tomorrow off. Don't call me. Good night." And she left.

"Oh… Okay," I said to the closing door.

"DEXTER!" Cody cried and I turned.

He ran up to me and threw his arm around my waist. Astor walked up behind him. She always looked serious these days.

"Hi," she said.

"Hey. Is the homework done?"

"I didn't have any," Astor answered.

"I have a paper I need help on," Cody told me.

"Okay. After supper we'll work on it."

"Are you going to be home tonight?" Astor asked. She sounded like her mother when she asked that.

"Yes."

Her expression shift was slight. It was very subtle, easy to miss by an untrained eye. It meant she was happy, or as much as a teenager could be.

Rita appeared next to Astor, smiling lovingly at her. "Teenagers just don't show emotions like we do, Dex. You should understand that better than anyone."

"We've were invited to the Batista's for supper Friday night. Any objections?"

"Can I bring my iPod?" Astor asked.

"Yes. Of course."

"Cool." Astor walked away.

I looked down at Cody. He grinned. "A real meal?"

"Yes. A real meal."

"I'm for it!" Cody ran off.

I felt a tug on my pants and turned. Harris stood at the edge of the crib reaching up for me. I lifted him into my arms, but all I could see was Abriella's dead baby. Rita stood next to me, watching our son.

#

Debra had begun re-examining The Artist cases at seven in the morning. It was now just after one the following morning. She was sure that if she dug deeper, she'd find some miniscule clue to help start them on the killer's trail.

But so far, all she'd come up with was how disturbing it was that his victims looked like wax figures instead of flesh and bone. She knew the victims would have known they were dying to the very end. Even the children.

She jumped when a file was slapped down in the middle of her work. She looked up, staring at Cobb.

They were alone in the conference room, surrounded by photographs of the deceased from twelve crime scenes. She glanced at her watch.

"It's one in the morning, Mister Cobb. What are you doing here?"

"The Artist has the case files delivered at midnight." He motioned at the package. "Copy everything and get it to me by three. I need it for the morning edition."

"It's evidence now."

He leaned on the table, staring into her eyes. "If you want this to work, we have to make it look like this never happened, and the police didn't know in advance."

Debra looked down at the package, realizing what he was saying.

"Do you understand, Detective?" Cobb asked.

"I thought you didn't care what happened?" she taunted, lifting her eyes to glare at him.

"This is me cooperating. If you want me to take it away, then fine, I'll—" He reached for the package.

Debra snatched it away.

"Okay. Deal. I'll copy everything and you'll get it by three. Where will you be?"

"It always comes to my house. Don't send someone in a uniform, he might be watching."

"You think like a cop."

"I have to. It's how my paper stays number one in this city." Cobb left.

Debra tore open the envelope, emptying it on her desk, and hoping that somewhere in this would be a clue to who The Artist was.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The Artist.

What an ambiguous, but apt name for this serial killer. I could see his latest work as I passed through the crowd. He was a person of refined taste and perfection. He posed his victims and then killed them through freezing or carbon monoxide poisoning.

Perhaps the thing that made me admire him the most was that he compiled a perfect police case file with forensics included. Had he once been an officer? Or was he like me and worked with the police?

Coming out of the crowd I found the latest piece of work included two young naked men frozen in a wrestling pose. On the way over I'd heard this one talked about on the radio. The killer had dubbed this piece 'The Grecian Wrestlers.' Before death these two young men's sculptured muscles would have rippled with every move. Men and woman would have stopped to watch their every move, amazed with the body of perfection. They were the perfect vision of Grecian wrestlers.

I stopped at the edge of the scene. There was one thing that his crime scenes were lacking. It was the one thing that I was called for. It was the one thing that left me wondering why Batista had insisted I show up at this one, not that I didn't want to be here. I'd seen The Artist's work in photographs and the newspaper. It was much more awe-inspiring close up.

"There's no blood here," I announced so everyone could hear me. And then looked at Batista standing nearby. "Again."

Masuka, fresh back from Las Vegas, grinned at me. "Not feeling up to the challenge?" he asked.

"No. It's just that you're back, these pieces never have blood, so why am I here?"

Batista stormed up to me, pointing with his notebook in my face. "This is _not_ a piece, Dexter. It's a crime scene with two victims. Do not give this asshole what he wants."

His mood hadn't improved.

"Okay. But I do blood. There's no blood."

"Over there. Behind the crowd." Batista pointed toward a tool shed with his notebook.

I headed for the building, pushing through the crowd. As I passed through the fringes I could see the North wall. A message was painted on it with a rusty red colored substance. It was the right color and texture of blood that had oxidized and dried in Florida's hot, humid afternoon. I sat my kit down and snapped off photographs.

I stared at what was written: _To take refuge with an inferior is to betray one's self._

He was talking about someone who had betrayed him, but who? Someone who was going to regret it, no doubt.

I picked up my kit and approached the wall. With a swipe of a swab and spritz of luminal I found blood in the writing. I looked up at the wall. The Artist had made someone bleed? Was he getting bored with his sculptures?

#

_Watching the detectives… He can't be wounded 'cause he's got no heart…_

They were moving around the squad room like bees, desperate to find The Artist before he left them another art piece. It wasn't going to be any time soon. After all, if he'd left something useful at a crime scene, I would have found him first, and he would be my victim tonight.

My phone rang and I grabbed the receiver on the second ring.

"Dexter Morgan."

"D… Dexter?" a woman said. She sounded uncertain.

"Yep."

There was a long pause. So long I thought she'd hung up. Then I heard a soft sob.

"I need to talk to you, Dexter."

"Who is this?"

"Abriella."

Abriella? Why was she calling me?

"We have nothing to talk about."

Another long pause. She wasn't much of a talker. "Please."

I weighed my options. It was chosen for me when Debra walked in.

"I have to go," I told Abriella. "We'll talk about this another time."

Abriella wasn't ready for the conversation to stop. "I'm being released in an hour. I'm going… Home."

"That's good to hear."

Debra motioned me to hurry. She had something important to talk to me about.

"I have to go. Call me—"

"I'm going home where my successful lawyer husband that everyone adored murdered my helpless son and then tried to kill me. How is that good to hear?" she snarled.

It was a fast turn from scared to angry, but given her circumstances, I wasn't surprised.

"I guess it's not then."

"His family hired a lawyer. He questioned me about his disappearance. I told him what I told the detective, but he didn't seem to believe it. I'm worried he's going to find something. What should I do?"

"Dex, get off. I need to talk to you," Deb whispered.

"I need to go. I have work."

She didn't hang up. She told me, "Dexter, after what I saw you do, the last thing I expected was to wake up alive in an emergency room. You must have some set of morals, however twisted. And you're used to riding both sides of the law. The worst I've done is get a speeding ticket. I don't know how to deal with this. Help. Me. If I mess up and they try to arrest me for his murder, I am _not_ going down alone."

A threat. Abriella was continuing to surprise me. "Meet me tonight at Jim's Wing Shack on twenty-first. Eight o'clock." I hung up before she could reply and turned to Debra. "What's up?"

"Blood from the wrestler scene. What do we have?"

"Oh…" My mind was still on the call and reorganizing my thoughts took a moment. I found the report and gave it to Debra. "It was bovine mixed with a water-based paint."

"So he probably works in a slaughter house."

"No. The ratio of blood to paint you could squeeze from a roast, but a field test would still be positive for blood. The Artist just wanted us to think he'd made someone bleed, but in reality, he went to a store, bought a roast, squeezed out blood, mixed it with paint, and probably ate the roast."

She threw the results on my desk. "Fucker! I really hate this guy."

"Can you baby sit for me tonight, Deb? I have to meet someone at eight."

"A girl?" She smiled and sounded hopeful.

"Yes, but it's about a case."

Her smile dropped. "You're a blood guy. Why are you meeting someone about a case?"

"She's from county. She asked for my help on a case. Her case."

"LaGuerta's head would explode if she found out you were helping county, Dex."

"Then don't tell her."

She gave me eyes and a crazy face. "Alright! But don't be gone for hours like you did to me last time. I have to get her early."

"I won't be late. Can you be there by seven-thirty? I should be back by nine."

"Better be." She walked out.

I didn't want to meet Abriella, but it was better if I put down some ground rules with her at this point. Like never, ever, call me again.

#

I leisurely entered the restaurant, looking for Abriella. She was sitting at the back, near the exit door. Did she plan that? Her bruises looked darker than before and her hair was cut short, hiding that it had been ripped.

As I crossed the room she looked up and held my eyes. There was fear in her eyes. That's when I knew she'd chosen this seat by a door for a fast escape if she needed it. At least we had the same amount of trust in each other.

I sat down. Our eyes never left each other's. A teenage waitress came up.

"What do you want?" the waitress asked.

"A cola."

"And to eat?"

"Nothing. Thank you."

"You, ma'am?"

"Nothing for me." Abriella didn't sound scared. Her voice was steady and rich but then all I could remember of her voice was her scream. I would remember that scream forever.

The waitress left us alone.

"I've never lied while breaking the law. I don't know what to tell this lawyer."

"You haven't lied."

"I told them I don't remember after I got away but I do."

"That's not a lie, that's omitting details. Abriella, you have a concussion and were severely beaten; no jury in the country would fault you for not being able to remember things."

"But—"

"No, Abriella. Don't change your story. If you start changing it now, people ask questions and doubt your honesty."

A tear slid down her face and she dipped her head, turning it toward the wall. She was embarrassed to let people see her cry. She didn't like to show weakness.

By instinct, to get her attention, I reached out and put my hand on her arm. I felt her tense. Her fear turned to hate in an instant. She jerked back both arms and put her hands in her lap.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that, but you have to trust me Abriella."

"Trust you?" She leaned in. In a whisper that should have been a yell, she asked again, "TRUST YOU!? How the fuck am I supposed to trust you?" More tears. This time there was no shame. "I'm scared to death of you!"

That was a logical and appropriate rebuttal.

The teenage waitress returned with my drink. I smiled, but it didn't change her hesitant look. She could sense something was happening, even if she didn't know what. She sat the drinks down and hurried away. I saw her stop another waitress, whisper something, and both looked at us. I had to get Abriella under control before people came to help her and expose me.

I leaned on the table, holding her gaze with mine.

"Did you know your husband was accused of murdering two women before you?"

She stared. She unhurriedly shook her head.

"And the list of assaults on his previous two wives and multiple girl friends has to be at least ten pages."

"He was married before?"

Apparently her deceased husband failed to mention that. "Yes. He was also had been under investigation for the disappearance of two girlfriends. He would have killed you. I saved your life by killing him."

Now that's something I never thought I'd hear myself say.

"What about the man on the table? What was he guilty of?"

"Sexually assaulting and murdering eight girls under ten. He got away with it because he always said he was at work and logins and cameras showed it, but there was an exit not covered by cameras or security. He had opportunity."

She pulled napkins from the dispenser and wiped her tears. We sat for several minutes after that. She stared at the napkin, perhaps debating what to do about me.

"No one should be murdered," she whispered. "There isn't an exception to the commandment."

It sounded more like she was telling herself than me, so I didn't reply. What commandment was she talking about?

With her tears dry, she collected herself some and stated, "They weren't your first."

There was no question in it. She knew without me answering. Miguel had known. Lila had known. My father had known. We were entering dangerous, dark territory now. Was there about to be a request?

She looked at me. "You had the place covered in plastic. That would have taken time. You'd planned on that guy on the table. Carter was just a bonus, wasn't he?"

I nodded. She knew me. There was no need to lie right now.

"Why were my clothes changed?"

"You had Carter and Gregory's blood on you. Usually I'm the one that tests that, but I didn't want to take the chance someone else might – like a prosecuting attorney. I changed your clothes, nothing else. I'm not a sexual predator."

She glared at her napkin. "That makes me feel _all_ better."

"It wasn't meant to. It's a fact."

"Are you sure what I've told people will stick?"

"Yes. If you don't change it in any way. If they press charges, you'll need a lawyer."

"I know."

I took out my wallet and dug out a business card. Batista had given me this man's card right after Doakes had attacked me in the lab, in case I needed it. I never did. That problem went away by a stroke of fate. I sat the card down on her side of the table.

"Call this man. Tell him Detective Batista sent you."

She just stared at the card.

I leaned on the table and she looked up at me.

"I've read your police record. You haven't hurt anyone. You are safe."

"Thank you for meeting with me, Dexter," she said.

There was my cue to leave. She was done with me.

"If you need anything, just call," I told her.

She picked up the card, but didn't say anything. I stood, dropped two dollars on the table for the drink, and turned to leave.

"Dexter."

I turned. She was looking at me again. There was no fear, or anger, or any emotion on her face. Why was that?

"Thank you for coming and pretending to commiserate. I appreciate it."

"Pretending?"

She stood up next to me. "Serial killers rarely feel emotions. It's all a ploy to fit in."

Who the hell was this woman? How did she know about serial killers?

She walked around me, leaving first. I was very confused by her. What did she want? What was it going to cost me? And why had I forgotten about the ground rule I'd planned to lay down?

#

Batista stopped his car outside the Juen residence, behind a moving truck. He headed up the walk, passing two movers carrying a couch to the truck. Inside he found the chaos with six more movers all giving orders. The parlor that had been neat and open was now piled with boxes and furniture waiting to leave.

"This was fast," Batista said to himself, "and suspicious."

Batista caught the arm of one of the movers. "Where's the woman of the house?"

He pointed toward the back. "In the kitchen I think."

Batista navigated through the house to the kitchen and stepped through a swinging door. This room was just as wrecked with taped and labeled boxes near the door, and half packed boxes scattered around the almost empty kitchen. But no Abriella.

He turned to leave when he heard sniffling. Batista followed it around the counter in the middle of the kitchen. On the other side he found Abriella sitting against the counter with a baby blanket clutched to her chest and a broken plate on the floor in front of her. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying and she looked like she'd slept in her clothes.

"Missus Juen?" Batista said.

She didn't look up. He crouched next to her.

"Ma'am?" Batista said.

In a trembling voice near a whisper she told him, "I broke a plate. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

He glanced at it and smiled at her. "It's okay. It's just a plate."

"I didn't mean to do it. I found his blanket in a drawer. Jason always liked to put his blankets in drawers. I was so startled I jumped and knocked… I knocked that plate off the counter."

"Ma'am, it's just a plate."

"But what if… What if he's not dead?" she looked wide-eyed at Batista. "What if Carter isn't really dead? What if he comes back?"

"I'm… I'm not following."

"He tried to kill me for protecting my baby. What will he do for breaking his grandmother's china?" She started crying. "Why couldn't I kill him? Why wasn't I strong enough to stop him?"

"You wanted to kill him that night?"

"I wanted to stop him! He was shaking and shaking Jason. I was his mother! I was supposed to protect him, even from his own father. I was supposed to stop anyone from hurting him!"

"Did you kill your husband?"

"No." She closed her eyes and her hands relaxed into her lap. "I was a horrible mother. I wasn't strong enough to save my baby."

Batista looked at her arms. He caught the closest one, turning it. She yanked it away, but not before he saw the thin scabs down her arms that said she'd come close to succeeding sometime in the last twenty-four hours. She couldn't be left alone.

"Why are you moving, Abriella? You got out of the hospital two days ago."

"I woke up last night thinking Jason was crying. And then I thought Carter was standing by the bed. Everywhere I look, they're there. Like ghosts." She started crying again. "I can't stay here. Is it illegal to burn your own house to the ground?" She looked up at him.

Angel smiled a little. "I'm pretty sure it is."

She buried her face in the baby blanket. "I miss my baby. I want my baby back!" She let out a low moan. "Why couldn't I see what he was? Why was that hidden in plain sight?"

"I don't know, Abriella."

Batista stood. "I'll be right back. Wait for me here, okay?

She nodded.

Batista walked into the hall where he could keep an eye on her and make a phone call.

"Hey, baby," he said to the phone. A slight smile followed. "No. It's not about Nina this time. It's about a victim on a case I'm working. I have a favor to ask…"

#

Sitting near the elevators gave Debra a view of who came and went. When she looked up from her computer and saw Nina Batista walk off, and then past her, she felt trouble brewing.

Nina walked up to her estranged husband's desk and slapped a thick packet of papers down. He looked up from the case file he'd been engrossed in. His fighting face appeared and he stood, snatching up the papers.

"I told you never to come to work," Batista told her.

"Sign them," Nina ordered.

He grabbed her elbow to lead her to the conference room. She jerked her arm away, stepping back.

"Sign them."

"No," Batista snarled. He grabbed her hand and slapped the papers in it. "Get out of here and don't ever come to my work again."

"If you don't sign them, I will force you."

"Oh? How?"

"I'll prove you're incompetent."

"You have nothing against me."

"I have plenty. Sign the papers."

"Get out."

"Sign the papers, Angel!" she yelled.

He didn't look around the room. He grabbed her elbow and held on when she tried to pull away. Batista marched her back to the elevator, tapping the button.

"We are going. You can't stop me," Nina stated.

He turned, pointing a finger in her face. "You take my daughter across the state line and I will file kidnapping charges, Nina. I won't hesitate. Don't ever come to my work again."

The elevator doors opened. He escorted her on, tapped the button for the first floor, and backed out. The two glared at each other until the doors closed. He turned and walked back into the squad room. He stopped, looking around him.

Everyone ducked his or her heads, going back to work or pretending too. He met eyes with LaGuerta. She motioned him into her office and he obeyed. The blinds went closed. Quinn and Debra exchanged a look before they went back to work.

#

Batista didn't look at LaGuerta as he sat down hard on her couch. She sat next to him, watching his face.

"She's going to keep at this until I change my mind," he told her.

"I know."

"You think I should give up custody," he said with disgust.

"I never said that and I don't think that."

He took off his hat and rubbed his head. He looked up at her. "I don't know what to do. Ally wants to go to Washington so bad. Nina's parents are offering her everything she wants. It's just a bribe."

"And she's just a teenager."

"I know! Which is why I'm so against this."

"Is it that? Or is it you don't want Nina to leave?"

"What? No!"

LaGuerta took his hand between her. "I didn't mean like that. I mean, if Nina and Ally leave, it means your life changes. You're not real good with change."

"I don't want to give up custody. I feel that if I do that… If I do that, I'm giving up on her, saying I don't want to be her daddy any more."

"So don't."

"Baby, she wants me to give up—"

"Angel, you can give her permission to go. Have your lawyers hash out the fine print. Do you think you're the only divorced parent that's had to let their child leave for a better opportunity? When you were ranting about this the other night, you admitted the school she'll go to is better than the one she's at here."

Batista stared at her face for a long minute. He leaned in and kissed her. She kissed back, tightening her hands around his. He looked in her eyes.

"I don't think you'll ever stop giving me a reason to love you," he told her.

She smiled, kissing him.

#

I walked into a trap.

The kids and I arrived at the Batista's at 6:45pm, fifteen minutes early. Cody leapt from the mini-van and ran to the door, anxious to see his adopted 'aunt' and 'uncle.' Astor was less excited. She seemed to enjoy spending time with LaGuerta, but tonight she was mad at me. I let her bring her iPod, but made her leave her cell phone at home. It had caused a big argument. I almost gave in until she stormed off to her room to put it on her dresser. That's when it hit me she was having a teenage tantrum versus a real objection – even when Rita was around I'd never been able to quite differentiate the two.

I pulled Harris from his car seat and grabbed his diaper bag, and the three of us headed up the walk.

"Be nice," I told her.

"Whatever," she answered.

"Astor."

"Okay! Geeze!"

The door ahead opened and LaGuerta stepped out to sweep Cody into a hug. I smiled when she looked up at us.

"Oh! I like that color on you," she told Astor.

And like a light switch, sullen, angry Astor became bubbly, happy Astor.

"My friend Nichole said it makes my eyes show up better. And this boy at school noticed it today."

"What boy?" I asked.

Astor ignored my question.

LaGuerta stepped back to let them in, but stopped me.

"We have an extra guest tonight. She's a victim on a case you and Angel are working, but he felt she was a danger to herself. He asked if she could stay for a while. Just don't treat her strange, he's trying to confirm if she was responsible for killing her husband or not."

_It can't be…_

LaGuerta moved and there in her living room was Abriella. Do I have to kill this woman to keep her out of my life?

She was smiling, until her eyes met mine. Her smile vanished. I'd never even stolen one of Astor's rare smiles that fast.

#

The neighbor children had instigated a two-block game of hide and seek, and convinced Astor and Cody to join. Since it was a Friday night, and the children were engaged in physical activity, untethered from their computers, televisions, and video games, all the parents would let them stay out till well after dark.

LaGuerta, Abriella, Batista, and I sat in plastic chairs around a plastic table, sipping margaritas. LaGuerta had drug out Harris' 'corral' but Abriella took charge of it, and him. He was busy picking at grass and trying to catch bugs. Silence had fallen around the table.

"I never got to ask you. How was group yesterday?" LaGuerta asked Abriella.

"It was upsetting."

LaGuerta leaned toward her. "I thought you liked the group."

"Did you catch that Dolphin game?" Batista asked me.

I hated football. "I missed it. Was it good?"

"It was awesome!" And he began telling me all about it. I tuned him out, paying close attention to everything Abriella had to say.

"I do," Abriella answered LaGuerta. "They're really great. It's just that a couple days ago this woman came in with fresh bruises. Last night she came in with a broken nose and arm. We tried to talk her into going to a shelter, but she wouldn't go. I saw on the news this morning the police found her in an alley, beat unconscious. She's in the hospital now, scared but still planning on going back to him." She shook her head. "This guy is such a good liar and the police believe that he didn't do it." She looked right at me, adding, "He's going to do it to her again, maybe this time kill her."

Was she asking what I thought she was asking? My pulse picked up when I thought of killing this man.

"You can't do anything about it, Abriella," LaGuerta told her. "I know you want to, but you can't."

Abriella let out a soft sigh. "Couldn't you dig around in his past? Maybe he has some skeletons you could use to arrest him for one night." She lifted her eyebrows. "Someone needs to give him his due."

The time had come, hadn't it? Like everyone else who'd learned o my secret, she was expecting payment for keeping it. But if this man was a murderer, and met the Code, was that a bad thing?

"What's his name?" I asked.

"Does it really matter?" LaGuerta asked. She was giving me her '_Shut up, Dexter_!' look.

Batista stopped talking. Did he notice I wasn't listening to him?

"I could dig around on my lunch tomorrow. If there's something there, you or Batista could put him in holding for a night," I lied, "but I have to have a name for that."

LaGuerta's look vanished into a smile that spoke of how she appreciated my taking interest in Abriella's problem. She would let me get the name now.

"Devin Eskew," Abriella told me.

I gave a nod. "Devin Eskew better hope he's clean, or he'll be spending a night on a thin cot. Right?" I looked at Batista.

He smiled. It was genuine but it had nothing to do with my interest in Abriella's problem. It was about something else I didn't understand.

"Exactly, Dex. Exactly."

And if there were something in Eskew's past that met my code, he would become a problem of everyone's past.

#

I was focused on my hunt. So far red flags on Devin Eskew were popping up all over my screen. The door opening surprised me and I turned. LaGuerta walked in and I hid the windows that would give her reason to arrest Devin Eskew.

"Anything on Devin Eskew?"

"Nothing so far, but I just got started."

"Let me know if you find anything."

"You'll be the first."

She turned and put her hand on the knob. She looked back at me with a smile.

"I'm glad you came Friday. Angel didn't think you would."

"The kids had fun."

"They did. I think Abriella did too. After what she's been through and seen, she needed that."

You have no idea what that woman's seen, LaGuerta.

"You like her, don't you?" LaGuerta asked.

"I like who?"

"Abriella."

Do I like her? Hell—"No."

"You've taken an interest in her."

"It's sort of the other way around."

"Maybe when this whole missing husband thing blows over, you should try a date. I think you two click."

"We _click_?"

"Yes. You both have a lot in common." LaGuerta left.

"We have a lot in common?" I asked the room.

Behind me, Harry told me, "You both are about to have two men in common. She's right about that."

"Hardly what I would call even an attraction."

Harry didn't comment. I was glad for that and focused again on my victim-to-be.

"It looks like the nanny will be staying late tonight," I told the screen and Harry.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Debra and Quinn walked off the elevator, each carrying a coffee and heartburn burrito. They could see LaGuerta, Batista, and Deputy Chief Matthews in LaGuerta's office with a man in his fifties.

Debra sat her coffee and burrito on her desk. "Haven't seen an all brass meeting this early in the morning in a while."

"No shit," Quinn commented as he headed for his desk.

Debra sat down and focused on work she had lined up for the day. She looked up when the door opened.

"Morgan, Quinn, come on," Batista said as he left the room with a file in hand and headed for the elevator.

The two jumped up and followed him onto the elevator.

"What's going on?" Debra asked.

"The Artist has left us another _art piece_."

Quinn and Debra looked at each other.

"I didn't hear anything about it on the news this morning," Quinn said.

The door opened and they walked off.

Batista told them, "He's changed his m.o."

#

An old desk sat in the middle of a palm tree grove. The desk looked like a strong wind could blow it over. Behind it was an old wood desk chair occupied by Kyle Cobb. But he wasn't smile and raping people of their newsworthy stories. He sat still, his hazy eyes staring at the typewriter that his blue fingers rested on. On one side of the typewriter was the morning edition of the Miami Sun Times. On the other a green hood lamp.

His youngest son stood next to the desk, pointing at the typewriter. His innocence hadn't been lost, even as he was murdered.

Batista, Debra, and Quinn stared at the crime scene. They had arrived at the scene before any citizens found it. It had been cordoned off just as word began spreading across the media. They were forced to stare at it, waiting for the coroner and Masuka to arrive.

Somewhere in the background was Cobb's wife. She had been wailing and screaming for an hour now, but they didn't notice. The scene in all its macabre exquisiteness held their undivided attention.

They didn't acknowledge Masuka when he approached.

"Isn't that the Miami Sun Times editor?" Masuka asked.

Debra nodded.

"Yeah," Quinn answered.

"Why wasn't it printed in the Miami Sun Times? Even if he was dead, I'd think they'd still print it."

"The Artist sent his file to the Miami Herald editor. He's refusing to use the packages in his paper. He's printing a letter in this evening's edition stating he refuses to print anything The Artist sends him and will be turning each package over to us. He doesn't want to end up like this."

"That's a fucked thought," Masuka told them. "Cobb was like The Artist's best friend and he still murdered him."

"Yeah. After he brought the case file to us before using it in his newspaper," Debra pointed out.

Quinn shook his head. "Serial killers don't have friends, just victims who don't deserve to die."

Masuka nodded, and then headed into the crime scene.

#

I found Devin as he left work. He was manager of inventory at a factory outside of town. I followed him to a bar on the seeder side of town. He parked his SUV on a street with a broken streetlight and walked to the front to meet his twin brother. Twin? I didn't see that coming.

While he was getting drunk, I had time to think. I'd pulled up Abriella's records again, this time with her maiden name. The woman of that lifetime had one speeding ticket, and just at that. The cop that pulled her over must have been having a bad day – who gives a ticket to someone doing three miles over? Something about her felt off and I couldn't put my finger on it.

"It's because we're suspicious of her motives and why she keeps coming around," Harry said, appearing in the passenger seat next to me.

I nodded.

"She accepted who you are quickly."

"Like she'd expected me."

"She asked you to do this. Perhaps she wants to kill someone and wants you to teach her. You can't, you know."

"I know."

"She confuses you. That's not good, Dexter."

I sighed. "Yes, but… Rita confused me. You never said anything bad about her."

My father had no remark about that.

Devin walked out of the bar with his brother. They parted at the door. His brother headed down one way; Devin toward his SUV.

I got out and on the balls of my feet circled around for my attack. He pulled out his keys, dropped them, fumbled to pick them up, almost fell over, and hooked the ring on a finger. He was in no shape to be driving, but I was about to take care of that. He found the right key just as I plunged the needle into his neck and pushed sedative into the vein. He gasped and passed out. I smiled a little, already feeling the euphoria of what was to come.

#

I spun around on the bar stool, waiting for Devin to wake up. He lay pinned to a pool table in a deserted bar. Over the last six months the bar had been given numerous health code violations, but selling to minors was the last straw that shut them down. It had been looted, but they hadn't been able to move out the pool table that was bolted to the floor.

Displayed around Devin were pictures of his victims: the man whose throat he'd slit, the woman whose head he'd indented, the girlfriend he'd put in the hospital. They were there to watch his execution, and judge him for his sins.

Devin turned his head and woke up with a start. He pulled against his restraints – they weren't going to give.

"Hello, Devin," I crooned as I got up and approached the table.

"Who… What… Where am I? Who are you?"

"Who I am doesn't matter to you. They do." I pointed at the photographs.

He turned his head, staring at them.

"Did that fucking bitch send you after me?" He must be referring to the girlfriend he'd beat; the same one that still wanted to go back to him after he'd broken her nose, arm, and ribs. "I'm gonna—"

"Kill her?" I interrupted. I hopped onto the pool table next to him. God I loved this job! "I'm afraid you won't be around long enough for that."

"I can pay you three times what she paid you to do this… Whatever this is."

I stood and began circling him. "This is a charity case. Devin." I leaned over him. "What's it like to bash a person's head in?"

Before he could answer I crouched, sliced his cheek, and with a pipet, pulled out a few ounces of blood from the incision.

"What the fuck!?" he screamed.

In front of his face I added a drop of blood to a slide and dropped a coverslip over it. The blood bloomed out – a sight that never failed to thrill me.

"I'm feeling generous today, Devin," I told him, smiling.

He looked hopeful. He misunderstood what I meant by that. What a wonderful game!

"Anything you want, it's yours."

"_Anything_ I want?"

He hesitated.

I interrupted him before he could answer, "I want you to disappear. I'm going to get exactly what I want."

I jumped off the table, grabbed a cleaver and a thin blade knife. I held one up on either side of his head. "I'll give you a choice. A quick death," I shook the cleaver. "Or a slow death." I looked at the thin blade for a second. "Which do you prefer?"

"FUCK YOU, MOTHER FUCKER!" Devin screamed.

I grinned again. "Slow. Good choice." I dropped the cleaver and gripped the knife with both hands, and lifted it high overhead.

"No! NO! Fast! I want fast!"

"Too late." I plunged the knife into his heart.

He gasped and gurgled as he drowned in his own blood. A fine mist of blood expelled from his lips and blood began frothing on the corners of his mouth.

And then he did something none of my victims had ever done. He whispered, "I'm… Sorry."

He was gone, and I was stunned.

Harry appeared next to me. "He wasn't really sorry."

"You don't know that."

"They are never sorry. He would have done it again."

"We don't know that."

"You can't let that stop you, Dexter."

I looked at him. "Ever since I met Abriella, strange things have happened. One after the other."

"Coincidence. She's not your friend."

"Maybe." I looked at Devin before I retrieved my bone saw. I flicked it on and went to work.

#

Nina slowed to pull into her driveway, looking at the car parked on the street. She shut off the engine, staring at the house. Through the living room windows she could see Angel and Ally on the couch. She drew a breath and got out, grabbing her purse off the front seat. She walked up to the door, paused to get a breath of nerves, and entered her house.

To her surprise the television wasn't on. There wasn't a radio blaring. The kitchen was dark – Angel wasn't attempting to impress her with his miserable cooking. Father and daughter sat on the couch, staring at her.

"Hi," Nina said.

Ally looked from her mother to Angel. She got up and kissed her father's cheek. He smiled, and when she hugged him, he hugged her back.

"I love you, daddy," Ally told him and then disappeared into her bedroom.

Nina dropped her purse on a table by the door and walked to a chair. She sat down, watching him. He looked different tonight.

"Ally and I had a long conversation tonight," Angel told her.

"About what?"

"Everything. It made me realize something, though."

She played his game. "What's that?"

"She's growing up fast. She said that she's read some _neat_ things about the school she'd be going to in Washington D.C. Mainly their band and equestrian club. I guess your dad said he'd get her a horse if she went to school there, and riding lessons."

She nodded.

Angel looked down. "I'm not giving up custody. She's my daughter. Tomorrow, after I get off work, we can meet at my lawyer's office and go over the custody agreement. I want her here for Thanksgiving and Spring Break, every other Christmas, and two months every year."

"No. I won't do every Thanksgiving, Angel. I—"

"I'm telling you to go to Washington D.C. and take the job, Nina, and you want to argue if I get her every Thanksgiving?"

"Well… Yes. I want her for the holidays too."

Angel smiled. That was unexpected.

"What?" she asked.

"We'll discuss it tomorrow, but we have to come to an agreement. Ally said you have to give them a decision by Friday." Angel stood. "Okay?"

Nina watched his face. She was half expecting him to start laughing and tell her this was a joke. It never happened.

"Why the change of heart?"

Batista sighed. "You've been hearing about the serial killer, the Artist?"

She had. She nodded.

"I worry about her here, where people come and go so fast. Your dad's neighborhood is a lot slower, and it at least feels safe. She'll be happy there."

"You know something about the case?"

Angel shook his head. "We have nothing. Not a damned thing. That's makes me want to send you two somewhere safer. I have to go say good-bye to Ally. Meet me tomorrow at four?"

She nodded.

Angel went down the hall to his daughter's bedroom and disappeared inside. Nina smiled and relaxed. Knowing that he was giving up being close to his daughter just to keep her safe, perhaps she could agree to Thanksgiving.

#

"Excuse me," someone said.

Debra and Masuka looked up from the lab results Masuka was explaining to Debra. The woman standing before them had a faded black eye, a healing split lip, and looked uncomfortable. But more than that, she was a hero to Masuka. Masuka grinned and Debra almost dropped the file when he let go to extend his hand.

"Abriella Juen!?" Masuka said, offering a wide smile.

Abriella looked surprised. "Have we met?"

"No. No. I just… You lectured at the conference in Minneapolis last January. You talked about those two big cases you worked for the New York Police. You described the internal thinking of the serial killer that pushed people in front of subways, and another that tied people's ankles together, tied the rope to a bridge, and then shoved them off. If the fall didn't kill them, they'd drown. You're like the best forensic psychologist in the country!"

Abriella almost smiled. "Thank you."

"Are you coming to work for us? I'd _love_ to work with you. You are so amazing."

"No. I've retired."

"Oh… Why?" Masuka asked.

She dodged the question. "I'm looking for Dexter Morgan. Is he here?"

"I'll get him," Debra offered. She headed toward the back; unaware she was about to deliver a nuke into her brother's world.

#

I looked up when Debra opened the door. I was researching my next kill.

"There's someone here to see you and you better go save her before Masuka covers her with drool. She's like his hero or something."

I looked out my window and snatched a breath. Abriella. Was she here to point me toward another person in need of disposing? Or was she here to— Wait… Masuka's hero?

I looked back at Debra. "Why is she Masuka's hero?"

"She's Abriella Juen."

I stared at Debra.

I had a strange feeling I'd made a gross oversight when I researched Abriella. How had I done that? All I knew of her was she was not responsible for her husband's disappearance, she was staying with the Batista's while her house sold and was keeping my secret for some inexplicable reason.

"Why does that make her Masuka's hero?"

"Fuck! I had to spell it out for Batista too. I don't think you two don't even work in the same department as the rest of us! Abriella Juen is the best forensic psychologist in her field. The woman's won awards and caught some of the biggest serial killers in the last few decades. She is amazing. Is this who you had a meeting with the other day? I can only imagine what you two have in common."

We had nothing in common, save two dead men. But knowing this made me suspicious about why a forensic psychologist would keep my secret? She was used to catching people like me, not hiding us. Was she setting me up? Was she preparing to hand me over to the police when there was enough evidence? Or maybe, after years of catching killers, she herself had she become blood-hungry. Either way, this was not good.

Over Debra's left shoulder Harry appeared. "You should have killed her when you had the chance, son."

_ Really, dad? You're bringing that up now?_

"She can come back," I told Debra.

Debra left and spoke to Abriella, sending her back. She shut the door behind her and then turned to me.

"We have to talk," she demanded. "Somewhere not here. Somewhere close. And now."

"What's wrong?"

"NOW!" she barked, keeping her voice down.

"We can talk on the roof."

"Whatever."

We left through the back door and up the back stairs.

We came onto the roof and I turned to her.

She asked, "Remember me mentioning Devin Eskew?"

"Yes."

"He has a brother, Dexter, who filed a missing persons report and is accusing Devin's girlfriend of killing him, and he has disappeared without a trace. All they've found is his car at the last place he was seen alive. _Where_ is Devin Eskew?"

"He's gone."

"Gone?" She cocked her head. "Gone where? What does _gone_ mean?"

I was surprised by these questions. She knew full well where he was.

"I killed him."

She caught her breath. Her eyes widened. "_What?_"

"You asked me to."

"I did not such thing!"

"Friday after supper you said—"

"I am fully aware of what I said, Dexter, and I know I said _nothing_ about wanting him dead!"

"You said 'and give him his due.' You were asking me to kill him."

She gaped. No sound came out, but she looked like she could vomit.

"He was a bad man, Abriella. He killed one man, put a girl in a coma, and your friend in the hospital. I didn't mind you asking."

She exploded. "_I_ mind Dexter! I don't care if he was a _bad man,_ I didn't ask you to kill him!" She put her hands on her head, as if she was about to rip it off.

I remembered my father's reaction when he saw me at work. Was this going to end like that? She had seen me dismember a person. She knew I'd killed three men now. Was it going to destroy her?

"WHAT THE FUCK!?" bellowed out of her.

She stormed up to me and in a swift motion, slapped me. Where her hand hit stung, but it was the fact she slapped me that stung worse and sparked my well-restrained rage. I turned my head to tell her never to do it again.

Before I could, she screamed, "You twisted my words just so you could justify murdering him you psychopathic asshole! You used me to murder someone!"

I caught her hand when she tried to slap me a second time and pushed her down. It was a far cry from what I felt like doing to her. The Dark Passenger wanted me to kill her now, here on the roof, and enjoy it. But something else kept me from listening. Something I neither understood nor recognized.

She sprung to her feet. "I never should have kept your secret. I hate you!"

"I feel the same about you," I lied.

She ran to the stairs and disappeared.

I was tempted to chase her, wrap my hands around her throat, and _squeeze_ the life from her. But I just stood there, staring where she'd disappeared.

Harry appeared by me. "You have to stop her, son."

"He's right, Dex. You have to find out why she keeps your secret," Rita told me as she walked up on my other side. "Why she makes you feel so strange. It's different from how I made you feel."

"You have to kill her," Harry urged.

"You can't do that. She's done nothing wrong," Rita reminded me.

"She will expose you, Dexter."

"You betrayed her trust, Dex. She never actually asked you to murder him. You know that. You did it because you wanted to you. You have to tell her that." Rita moved in. "You have to admit you used her."

Harry wasn't about to let her talk me out of murder. "You owe her nothing. She's angry with you now. She'll give you up, son."

I closed my eyes and when I opened them, they were both silent. Even my Dark Passenger had grown still.

In her soft voice, Rita asked, "What are you going to do about Abriella, Dex?"

I didn't answer. I didn't know.

#

Abriella smiled, watching Batista open the passenger door for LaGuerta and hold her hand while she got in. He closed the door and rushed around to the other side.

"We shouldn't be too late," he called out.

"Take your time. Have a fun date!"

He smiled and waved. She watched him back the car down the drive and drive away. She went back inside, closing and locking the door behind her. Abriella settled down on the couch, picked a book up from the coffee table, and opened it to where the bookmark rested.

Outside the wind rustled the trees. Something moved.

The phone rang and Abriella crossed the room in front of the window to answer it.

Someone walked up to the window and watched her from the shadows.

#

I pulled up in his drive and parked. I let out a long sigh. I was exhausted, but satisfied. I needed that kill to clear my head. I got out of the van and strolled up to the door. I wanted to savor the kill for as long as I could. I walked inside, rolling my neck, preparing for my other life.

When I turned, a surprise waited for me. Martine was not sitting on the couch watching the home shopping channel. Instead, Abriella was pacing the floor with a whimpering Harrison. She looked at me.

Why does this woman keep reappearing in my life, God damnit!?

"What are you doing here? Where's Martine?"

"She told you she had to leave at eight-thirty tonight," Abriella answered.

"Yes. I mean… I'd forgotten that. Why are _you_ here?" I charged up to her and pulled Harris from her arms. "Why isn't Deb or… Someone else."

The rough exchange made my son start crying. I turned, keeping myself between her and my son. I began pacing and bouncing him. Of the three children, Harris was the only one that continued expressing his grief of losing his mother to me. Cody and Astor wouldn't even talk to me about it. They reserved those conversations for the grandparents and their therapist. I just Harris would express it in words and not by being so clingy.

"She couldn't reach your sister," Abriella explained. "I was there when Martine called looking for Maria, but she went on a date with Angel. I was helping."

"You've done nothing but cause me problems."

"_I_ caused _you_ problems?"

"Yes, you've—"

"Let's set some things straight, Dexter. You killed and probably chopped up my husband, but people think I must have killed him. I can see it in their eyes; hear it when they talk to me. No one I knew before will even speak to me. And then you killed someone because you _thought_ that's what I asked, and I didn't. Do you have any idea how suspicious it makes me look? Maria and Angel knew I wanted him locked up. Angel questioned me about his disappearance, even slipped up and mentioned it's the second man I've known that's just disappeared. I had to lie. I've never lied like that. So who is causing who problems here? Ever since I ran into that shack that night, my life has been nothing but one hop from hell to another, and you're always there when I land! You're the one causing problems!"

"I had to do it, Abriella. They would have killed again and again, and it's my job to stop them. I'm the only one that can. And I won't apologize for thinking you asked me to kill Devin Eskew, because sooner or later, everyone that knows the real me asks me to murder for them!" I bellowed.

She stared at me. I thought she might try slapping me again.

I stared back. I couldn't believe I'd admitted the truth about myself to her.

What happened next was another surprise. She didn't yell. She didn't try to slap me. She turned and picked up her purse and keys from a side table.

"Harris is teething and you're out of Oral Gel." She headed for the door. "I gave him some baby aspirin."

I wasn't letting her leave. Not without knowing one thing, the one thing that was eating at me.

"You didn't tell me why you're here tonight?"

She slowed to a stop. She turned around.

"I used to believe murdering for any reason was unacceptable, until a serial killer saved my life. I still don't think it's right, I still plan to help catch murderers, but you are the exception to everything I believe in. You have morals, however loose they are." She looked at Harris. "You have a family that you're good to. Maria told me about Rita. Tonight, I saw two children who are adjusting to it because their father has been strong – or so they think. I'm going to guess you never really felt her death like everyone else, if at all. So, when Martine called, and I realized where you were tonight, I decided I'd help you keep your secret for a little longer."

Pieces about her were starting to find spots. I was beginning to understand her. I felt something about it. I felt… Relieved. Like after spending days trying to solve a problem I'd suddenly stumbled on the answer.

"How is babysitting keeping it?"

"If I hadn't, she would have called everyone on your list. People would have started looking for you. You would have been discovered."

She was mostly right. I wouldn't have been discovered right away. I would have been in so much hot water that people would expect me to account for my whereabouts all the time for a while. I wouldn't be able to get away to kill. The urge would have whittled at my patience. I would have run the risk of snapping and being discovered. In the end, by doing this, she had protected me.

Abriella approached me. "I need you to make me a promise, Dexter. I need you to promise you will never kill anyone for me again. Not even if they're going to kill me. Got that?"

I shook my head. "I would stop someone from killing you."

That took her aback. "I thought you hated me. Why would you stop someone? Again?"

Yes. Why? I thought about that for a moment. Then it came to me.

"I don't hate you. What I know is that you're angry I murdered someone who deserved it, and you continue to keep my secret. I trust you. A little."

A slight, devilish smile twisted her lips. It was attractive on her. "Why Mister Morgan… We find ourselves on common ground. This is certainly unexpected."

"Is this how friendships begin?" I asked her.

"No. Normal people don't have friendships start this rocky or based on such a dark secret. But nothing about us is normal. For us, this is as good as it gets, I guess. About my promise, Dexter."

"I won't do it even if you ask."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Good night, Dexter."

She walked to the door.

"Abriella."

She turned at the door.

"I don't know much about being friends."

She smiled. "I bet you don't. So let's start simple. Tomorrow morning you drop off the kids and then meet me for coffee at that little stand at the precinct. Maybe watch the news so we can talk about something. Okay?"

I nodded.

"Good night, Dexter." She left.

Harry and Rita joined Harris and me. I looked down at him. He'd fallen asleep during the conversation, one hand clutching my shirt and the other draped over my arm. I knew the sight should move me somehow, but it didn't. I was just glad he was asleep.

"Is she really a friend?" I asked my ghosts.

"Time will tell," Rita answered.

Harry looked at me. "Yes it will."

So now I had to wait and see.

I hated waiting.


End file.
